


He Just Likes The Rush

by Human_Resourccs



Series: Masks of Gas and Domino [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, It's fine because neither does edward, Jon doesnt know how to act like a regular human, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Resolved Romantic Tension, Slow Burn, They're both assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Human_Resourccs/pseuds/Human_Resourccs
Summary: a pre-Scarecrow Jonathan Crane is addicted to fear. He's not very good at going about getting his fix in very healthy ways; much to Edward's interest.





	1. Chapter 1

Jonathan Crane was a man who would often be the first to insist - with no small amount of snark - he was the only sane person in any given room full of ordinary folk. The only sane one, as professors and doctors of this, that, and some othersuch fussed and forced smiles and faked laughs at organised events in order to gain the favour of beneficiaries.

The only sane one, as he administered his own creation; his prototype fear toxin on his own body, completely taken by the feeling of icy cold dread creeping up his throat since he could remember.

Unfortunately, like any drug, prolonged exposure had led to heightened immunity and lessened effect. Quite a problem, then, for a man who craved fear and so rarely felt it.

lt was this predicament that had found Jonathan Crane; sanest man in the room, willingly walking into a building he had on good authority was owned by one of Gotham's so-called Rogue's Gallery. The Riddler, specifically - in recent weeks, the challenging of these infamously difficult and cruel death traps - puzzle rooms, he called them - had become something of a common pastime for his in his rare gaps between teaching and personal research.

The first time this happened, in his defence, had been unintentional. Jonathan was not a man who closely followed the general news and if the Riddler's traps were _easy_ to avoid - well, now, what would be the point of that?

He'd found himself venturing through a few of the lesser-inhabited buildings; particularly stressful weeks often saw him going on aimless wanders in order to clear his head of tension. The gothic aesthetic of the city was something he was able to thoroughly appreciate, and he was more than capable of defending himself by utilising the working prototype of the toxin he carried out of newfound habit.

It was then, while inspecting a green question mark graffiti'd onto the wall that the door to the room locked and previously unseen, concealed neon lights flickered promptly to life. The gaudy shade of green suddenly piercing the room sent a few rats scrambling for the protection of the dark once more. Speakers that had been cleverly built in to compliment and blend to the building's crumbling geometry crackled loudly to life and caused Jonathan to wince slightly. A grimace creeped across his face as he squinted at the neon tubing - also shaped as question marks - and came to the conclusion that this night was to be more eventful and possibly lethal than he'd hoped.

Finally, discernible audio began to play through the speakers. A loud, projecting voice filled air, proclaiming with complete and utter self-confidence.

**"Well well well! Greetings and salutations, my fair, nameless little Gothamite. Now-"**

Jonathan _immediately_ tuned out from the obnoxious voice currently assaulting his ears - the loud charismatic tones were reminiscent of greasy carnival barkers or tacky game-show hosts and he did not care for it at all. He realised now where he was and he what he had to do; solve whatever the riddle was, obviously, or perish. He had absolutely no intention of allowing the latter and wandered back over to the wall that had the graffiti on it to begin with the former. It was the only thing in the room with any sort of note and so he asserted that whatever the answer was would lay here. Since the voice simply carried on, unresponsive to his apathy, he surmised it must've been pre-recorded. Sensible. At least the lunatic had some common sense.

He mentally tuned back in just in time to hear the riddle proper, now that the man had stopped babbling of his self-proclaimed duties about…. Something.

**"My head is a question; I've one pointed toe**

**My name is a murderer, of one the most old**

**You can grow me, eat me, walk with me though**

**Strong as the oak, I'll carry you home.**

**Who am I?"**

Jonathan paused, considering the words carefully. He squinted at the wall, intricate depictions of a great deal of household objects littered the scene - it looked like one of those Lost Object books you gave to children.

**"Tick-tock, my clueless friend! Better think fast, or you'll soon meet your end!"**

He cringed at the incredibly smug tone that accompanied the taunt. Nobody should ever be so proud of such a cheap rhyme. He noticed then that there was a heavy gas seeping into the room, settling thickly on the floor. His eyes widened slightly, feeling a rare pang of panic spike up through his stomach. There were only a small handful gasses that lay like that and he wanted to inhale exactly _none_ of them.

Thinking fast, then.

His eyes darted back across the imagery, running all of the clues through his mind.

_A question for a head?_

Something curved, then, surely. It had to be literal, or that statement would be far too abstract. That narrowed it down a fair bit. The pointed toe, of course, must mean an object that comes to a point.

_A murderer…_

He was more than familiar with the bible, but… Cain? There was nothing about Cain that matched the other two statements. So a snake, then?

After about thirty seconds it was clear there was no sign of any reptiles on the wall, and the thick gas cloud now crept up past his waist. He glanced down and took a slow breath.

_Cain. Cain. Ca-_

A cane. A curved head. A homonym of Cain. Sugar canes are grown and eaten. The walking cane spoke for itself. That had to be it. Sure enough, after a moment searching, his gaze fell upon a depiction of a tacky looking gold cane with an exaggerated curve in the handle. He slid his palm over it and quickly found a slight depression in the wall. A dull thud reverberated around the room as he pressed into it with a fingertip; just as the gas had begun to encroach on his ribs the flow was cut short. The speakers crackled back to life as Jonathan released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding in. It was shakier than he would have ever admitted.

**"My, my! Colour me impressed, my dear little Gothamite. You've got at least half a brain! Congratulations on your... continued survival."**

A slow clap that dripped sarcasm rang through the audio feed. The gas dropped, seeping out of some sort of hidden vent.

**"Run along now, before I change my mind. Off you go! Be free!"**

Jonathan would have scowled at the teasing tone. However, as he quickly exited the room - he wasn’t one to tempt fate - all his thoughts would linger on was the panic, the fear he'd been chasing since the toxin stopped having an effect on him. Despite stoic appearances, the very real and very lethal threat to his life had set his heart rattling in his chest in just the way he had been chasing since his first trial of chemicals.

So it was perfectly understandable, then, when his habitual walks for the purposes of de-stressing then became the studying of Gotham's more... decrepit buildings in the search of further puzzle rooms. A perfectly sane thing to do, he thought to himself with no small hint of sarcasm as he entered the sixth of the death traps he'd discovered.

**\--**

It had not escaped Edward's notice, this curious stranger that had been so completely taken by his devious little puzzle rooms. Well, who could blame him? They were absolutely perfect; in design, execution, and… well, executions! He chuckled to himself internally.

His work on them had succeeded in thinning out more than a handful of Gotham's less-intelligent population and they had been set up so as to leave no evidence back to his control room. Well - no evidence that anyone other than a genius of his own calibre could ever hope to detect.

The man - A one Doctor Jonathan Crane - had caught his curiosity after the third riddle solved, and had certainly captured his attention by the fifth. Now he watched over the security feed with his chin rested in his palms, fixing his gaze to the screen with heated interest. The good Doctor was a curious man in and of himself, from what Edward had gathered \- which was actually startlingly little, as the man had been born before things were recorded digitally - after the fourth completed conundrum. Even for a university professor he had quite odd habits, Edward thought idly.

A few minutes passed by, and Dr. Crane emerged unscathed yet again. As always, it was a rather close call. Normally, this would have irritated him, but he was by-and-large simply impressed by the other's active search for his cleverly-laid puzzles. He needed to know what was motivating him to go to such lengths. Clearly, this Crane was an intelligent fellow - he wouldn’t be breathing anymore otherwise! - so the mystery of why he would so eagerly throwing himself into harm's way wasn't something he could easily fathom.

Doctor Crane seemed to be in and of himself, a riddle, and Edward found himself interested in the answers - though he wasn't to know that only time could solve this particular enigma. It would be another two months before the Scarecrow would terrorise Gotham for the very first time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which poor long-term decisions are made and strange friendships are forged.

  
It had been roughly a month since Jonathan Crane had caught the eye of Gotham's very own resident Riddler, and with each completed trap room Edward had only found his interest piqued further. Nobody had _ever_ done anything like this before - not… not willingly, anyway - and never with such perceived…

He frowned slightly, searching for the word. Determination? Compulsion? Both and neither would suit.

Like clockwork, once or twice a week he would trip a switch and escape with mere seconds to spare. He'd suspected, and promptly had said suspicions confirmed, that Jonathan was not simply wandering into harm's way due to some sort of spectacular death wish; a caught glimpse of a weak smile that could only be described as 'giddy' upon exiting to safety on one occasion made it clear he was _enjoying_ his brushes with death.

...That being said, the Riddler would still be adamant that there _was_ no threat if you had even a quarter of a brain cell to your name.

At any rate, the man was proving to be quite a great source of amusement. Edward had begun to look forward to these little shows, wondering what the limits of this stranger's intelligence were. He was almost rooting for him. Almost. In his background check - because of _course_ he did a little research on him - he'd come across the doctor's thesis on the innate fears of human nature; it was a good read despite the absurdity of it. _He_ was never driven by fear, after all. Perhaps it rang true for the common man, though. Maybe it wasn’t quite as crazy as he thought. Hmh.

It was then, as he observed the other emerge unharmed for the umpteenth time that he realised that this was becoming an unnecessary distraction; he kept finding himself wondering if the man would make good conversation. He was quite obviously a cut above the rest with regards to his intelligence. Obsession with fear aside, it was… difficult… to find intelligent - or even _non-hostile_ \- conversation amid the other Rogues. It left his mind feeling stifled; like kicking against the bedsheets that stick to your legs on a hot night. A rubber duck could only do so much with regards to any given discussion.

This would not do at all. Edward did not have the time to waste on hypotheticals, what-ifs, or maybes. Uncertainties were what he was put on this planet to solve and he resolved to do so immediately and with all of the grace and finesse that he was _so_ famous for.

There was really nothing else for it. No answer to be had that didn't involve simply meeting this fellow for himself. It wasn't as if he had much to lose, and a tolerable conversation partner to gain. Where was the harm?

**\--**

Jonathan was no fool; he had presumed that his repeated ventures would have garnered the Riddler's attention at some point or another. He simply was not concerned. If the rogue had any issues with the setup, he would have made them abundantly clear to him before now - subtlety pointedly _not_ his strong suit, despite his proclamations of finesse.

This, however, did not mean that Jonathan had not been preparing for the eventuality that he would be confronted by him; on the contrary, he considered it an opportunity. Not exactly the picture of morality and quite frankly becoming tired of sneaking mediocre, watered-down chemicals from the university lab, he needed better resources. Making a few connections to the underhanded workings of Gotham would speed things along quite nicely, actually. If he played his cards right he might even find himself in a position to discontinue testing on volunteering students and move onto folk that'd be…. _Less likely to be missed._

His research was being restricted by the need to stay well within safe parameters; as much as he enjoyed working with the steady stream of failing students seeking extra credit, it really just wasn't feasible to push their minds and bodies as far as he really wanted to. Needed to. The frustration of knowing that he _could_ be doing _so much more_ with his work was becoming increasingly harder to bear; a little more mental effort each time to show restraint. His patience would only extend so far.

So it was really quite convenient for him to find that upon his return home from his late-night working that the Riddler had unceremoniously broken into his small apartment and simply made himself at home, apparently.

As he fumbled loosely with the keys to the door he was met with a familiar voice, free from the crackling and slight fuzz of cheap stereo speakers.

"You _really_ live like this? And here I thought the uproar of the day was supposed to be professors being paid too much."

Convenient, if _incredibly irritating_ in a way that Jonathan found he'd already become bizarrely accustomed to due to the repeated exposure to him via audio playback.

"I think I saw a colony of rats starting to form a rudimentary monarchy in your couch stuffing. Something about rallying against the _sentient mould_ on the wall."

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow and turned to close the door, responding in deadpan;

"Wasn't aware I was due company. Would've thrown a blanket over it."

The quiet noise of disgust behind him brought an amused smirk to his face. So he kept a clean house, then. Noted.

He brought himself to a neutral expression again as he turned to properly regard his welcome intruder; his current exhaustion was quickly depleting his patience toward niceties, but he was determined to make the most of what may be his only chance at such a connection.

The Riddler was standing in the doorway to his living room, leaning against the door frame by what appeared to be the fewest points of physical contact he could manage whilst still looking nonchalant. Germaphobe, then? Jonathan inclined his head to the side slightly, and paced further into the apartment.

"You intending to stay a while?"

"If you're offering tea, I think I'll politely-but-firmly decline."

"Suit yourself."

Definitely a germaphobe.

He strode past the man into the living room, shucking his jacket and throwing it over the back of the slightly sunken, worn couch that sat flush with the wall. The Riddler had turned, slightly stunned and possibly offended by the lack of surprise at his sudden arrival, and followed suit into the room

Perhaps Edward should've opened up with a musical number instead.

Opting to stand, he leaned forward slightly upon his cane - one that mirrored the gaudy depiction of the first death trap, Jonathan noticed - and recovering quickly from his slight shock, tilted his head with a flashy smile.

"You're a rather curious man, Doctor Crane."

He held out a gloved hand, palm up.

"What kind of University professor risks his life on a regular basis for kicks? Now that _is_ a conundrum."

Jonathan met his gaze but made no comment, which Edward immediately presumed to be an indicator to continue, which he did.

"And the answer, _well,_ I was certainly pleasantly surprised. You're quite a busy man when you aren't grading papers and tripping death-… solving puzzles."

Jonathan wondered why the Riddler's domino mask seemed to have such a great deal of work put into it. The eyes were completely obscured; didn't look like regular glass, but he was no expert with hardware. He remained silent, brow furrowed slightly.

"Imagine my abject shock and horror to find that the head of psychology at Gotham University was holding highly unethical after-school clubs! Positively dastardly."

"Mmh. So what are you here for, then, Mister Riddler? You're not going to turn me in, and it's clear you've got no quarrels with me."

Edward's smirk dropped slightly. Maybe he wasn't a fan of being interrupted mid-spiel. Best not to tell him how he'd learned to tune out his obnoxious speeches, then. Jonathan conceded the man's genius status, and loathed that he chose to display it with such absurd grandiose.

"Straight to the point then, eh? Fine. Boring, but fine."

He repeated the gesture with his hand, holding it out before Jonathan. The grin found its way back onto his face.

"You're an intellectual. _I'm_ an intellectual. Let's be _friends,_ shall we?"

For the first time that evening, Jonathan was actually mildly shocked. He frowned lightly, glancing down at the hand extended to him.

"…Friends."

" _Well,_ about as friendly as two madmen in Gotham city can be, anyway."

Edward emphasised the word "madmen" with a mocking tone usually saved for schoolyard name-calling.

"After all, have you _seen_ the average everyman in this city? This _country?_ Much as I adore the sound of my own voice, I would like a little input that isn't my own in conversation now and again. Besides!-"

He straightened himself in a smooth motion, tossing up his cane in order to grip it about the middle - punctuating his sentence by giving it a slight sideways flick.

"I do so loathe to see a fellow genius so restricted by the morons around him. My heart bleeds for you, truly. Though I can't quite sympathise with your... _chosen field,_ shall we say? I'd certainly be willing to lend a helping hand to a _friend._ That _is_ what you're after, yes?"

Jonathan would admit that the Riddler had pitched the proposal rather well. Obviously he knew exactly what he'd been going to say from the moment he broke in; and this was precisely the sort of deal he had been hoping to make. He had no interest in any kind of companionship; there was a reason he never socialised with the other staff.

However… the few observations he'd made in the past few moments were intriguing. Maybe he could still find entertainment in this, too. What had a self-proclaimed supervillain to fear? And what exactly was it that caused so many of them to congregate in this city, of all places in America? As he considered it, he did find the thought interesting; as any man of science would, he couldn't exactly leave such a question unanswered when the opportunity was right in front of him.

Yes, this would suit him quite well, he supposed. Risky, of course, but after all, he did enjoy calculated risks; this would dramatically speed up his research, he hoped to have a more potent, fully functional revision of his toxin by the end of the next month.

He wasn't to know, of course, that he would be doing much more than clinical tests by then. _So much more._

"Doctor Crane, my arm is going to wither and fall off if you take any longer to come to a decision."

He blinked, having realised he'd been staring at the outstretched hand for a fairly long moment.

Right.

Without hesitating a moment longer, he shook the Riddler's hand.

"I do think we have a deal."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scarecrows are born and it gets sorta gay for like a second there

Looking back on it, Jonathan struggled to remember exactly how long it took after that first visit to his home that his research…. Escalated. He'd been well aware of his declining mental state - on some level, he had. But the warnings, the concern, the thoughts of slowing down; all of those _rational_ things he should've been thinking had been getting locked away in the back of his mind as he redoubled his efforts on his life's work.

It had started out fairly well, to be fair. Having already become desensitized to the Riddler's…. _disposition,_ it became fairly easy to hold a conversation when he was in a decent mood. The first thing he'd found out was that his new acquaintance's name was actually Edward Nigma - _'Common knowledge, Jonathan! Pick up a newspaper once in a while! Mister Riddler, really?'_ \- and barely batted an eyelid at the oddity of it. Honestly, it was one of the less excessive things he'd done for his aesthetic.

The arrangement had been thusly; the Riddler had provided him with the contacts he'd been looking for, put him in a position where he could now reliably access the more shady dealings of Gotham’s underground; and in return Edward would typically bother him - either in person or over the phone - whenever it took his fancy. It was mutually agreed that this arrangement would be promptly broken with no harboured grudges if it ended up they both found each other absolutely intolerable. They both had some small amount to gain from either eventuality. For Edward, his curiosity would be at rest and an interesting addition made to the criminal scene in Gotham; for Jonathan, he would maintain his contacts regardless and end up with more time to dedicate to research.

All in all, it really wasn't a bad deal. Especially since they had found one another mutually agreeable; on good days, they'd debate various scientific, sociological, and literary-based topics. Sometimes, these discussions even became quite heated; especially where the fields of psychology were broached. Sometimes Jonathan would swear that his acquaintance was _trying_ to goad him into throttling him.

"All I'm saying, Jon, is that- technically- _technically!_ the ancient Greeks weren't as far off as they thought they were with regards to the humours of the body."

"That is _objectively absurd._ "

"Well - what are the causes of most psychiatric disorders, if not an imbalance of chemicals in the brain? Riddle me that! Sure, they undershot the number of chemicals a little, and _wildly_ misinterpreted their identities and locations - but the core concept still stands, now, doesn't it?"

Edward, of course, knew **exactly** what he was doing - he just delighted in getting a rise from him.

"Edward, I am warning you..."

"Is that a begrudging admission of defeat I see through those gritted teeth?"

Neither of them were sure how that one didn't end without a trip to the emergency ward.

Though the raising of hackles was not entirely one-sided, of course. Jonathan also took great pleasure in his petty tortures.

"Jesus, Jon, how long have those dishes been there?"

"Mh? Dunno. Couple weeks, maybe. Lost count. I'll do them when I run out of clean ones."

Sometimes it took all his effort not to break the deadpan tone in his voice when the inevitable exclamations of horror from Edward soon followed.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Throw up in the corner; the mould's getting hungry."

The sight of the sheer speed with which the Riddler's face blanched - speedily exiting the room so the rogue might regain his composure - finally broke the stony expression he'd been trying to maintain; that was the first time Edward heard Jonathan laugh, and _really_ laugh. Low and hearty, head thrown back, _laughing_ until he was pink in the cheeks.

For some reason, Edward wasn't able to muster up the energy to be mad at the sight.

And on bad days, the Riddler would simply rant about whatever had slighted him or taken his interest in that particular instance, waving his hands in grand gestures and even getting up from where he was seated on a few occasions; Jonathan would half-listen and nod emphatically now and then. The background noise served to make it slightly easier to concentrate when he was thinking.

It was an odd arrangement, but they were odd people.

It was after that - if he concentrated, it must've been about a month, a little less - that things went sideways, as they always do. Edward seemed to have sensed the change, the slight shift in his personality - he didn't say anything. Perhaps it was out of some sense of respect, or perhaps it was for fear of the reaction. Hell - maybe he just wanted to see what would happen. Jonathan couldn't say he blamed him because that would've made him a massive, massive hypocrite; he'd have done the exact same thing, were the roles reversed.

Their talks became restricted to just phone contact; then became less frequent; then stopped altogether as the situation came to a head.

The situation. He kept dancing around the topic in his head, never thinking about it - was it because he struggled to sort through the hazy memory, or because he was _scared_ \- scared of admitting that Jonathan Crane, sanest man in the room, might've been more of a madman than he thought?

The preceding few nights, the lack of Edward's - of _anyone's_ \- presence, and his stock of resources had allowed him to work feverishly through the twilight hours until the sun came up, broken up only by his obligations as a lecturer.

It did not take a psychology doctorate to see the clear issue with this, and yet somehow Jonathan remained oblivious. Something had to give.

It had been innocent enough, such a small thing. Jonathan was no stranger to the habits of the students that his class was comprised of; they were young adults, a demographic that was always going to be known for their perceived lack of respect and general rowdiness. But for some reason, that day, they had just been so much louder than usual, he thought. So much louder - look, there, those four aren't even facing the front - and _she's_ eating in the middle of the lecture- is that little brat _napping_ in my class? How _**dare**_ he? How dare _any_ of them? He was here, _teaching-_

Oh, he would _teach_ them, alright. It all happened so fast; nobody was really sure what Professor Crane had actually done to the boy who'd been sleeping at his desk. He just stopped, mid-sentence. He had this... weird look on his face. Walked over to the desk. Planted his hands on either side of it. Leaned in, whispering something with heated fervour;  such a dark, dark expression on his face.

The boy just…. Started _screaming._ flailing around like a madman. Didn't stop until the paramedics showed up and sedated the poor bastard. They didn't find any drugs in his system - they weren't to know that the chemicals had long since been metabolised - no history of mental illness, nothing. Of course, though nobody could prove that Jonathan had actually _done_ anything to him, action still had to be taken. There were furious parents, friends of friends, all directing their anger at the university that _something be done about this!_

And so, Jonathan Crane, at least on paper, willingly resigned from his position at the University. This, of course, left him with a great deal of extra time on his hands. He wasn't even angry - the opposite, he was _pleased,_ now that he could dedicate so much more time to his work.

Within the week, everyone who had been in attendance of the class that day began to have strange, inexplicable mental breakdowns. One by one - no explanation. Screaming about monsters and spiders and fire and drowning; none of them ever recovered. Not fully.

Within the month, vendetta sated, fear had closed its cruel, icy fingers around the hearts of Gotham's inhabitants - and with that fear, the first appearance of the Scarecrow, and subsequent capture after a long arduous pursuit on the part of the GCPD and the batman. 

But the damage was done.  No time for regrets, nor doubts - this was the path Jonathan had set himself down and he intended to walk it to its conclusion.

His short stint in Arkham would prove to be most interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan earns a reputation for himself at Arkham and Edward is a whiny baby.

Jonathan’s first arrival at Arkham had been eventful, if nothing else. There was a sort of pattern to it, whenever an addition was made to the Rogue Gallery. Everyone - guards, staff, _and_ inmates - wanted to know how you would size up with the rest of them; how much trouble you would be; how dangerous you really were; most importantly, how useful you’d prove as an ally. It was basic human nature, he supposed. A sort of collective pack mentality. Jon didn’t feel any obligation to prove anything to them, and so any interest in him died down fairly quickly; due in part to his impressive talent for utterly shutting down conversation before it could ever begin; no need to follow social conduct in a house of madness.

The _eventful_ part came some time after this period of calm, accompanied by a startling realisation that, despite his physical incarceration, Jonathan felt more freedom than he ever had. His nature exposed he was free to explore and discover all these hidden little facets of his personality that even he hadn’t been personally aware of. More than ever, he started to count that day at the University as a blessing in disguise. He could pick away at people and peel back their layers and see just what happens when you push them just the right way. People’s fears were truly an amazing, amazing thing. What a _motivator_ they were! He decided he had a few things he wanted to try.

The first guard to attract his eye and his ire never regained the ability to walk. Really, it was a failure on the part of the asylum; didn’t they know he was an expert of the human mind? His cellmate was a typical paranoid schizophrenic - he’d never bothered to remember his name - and once Jonathan had worked out the nature of his delusions, all it required was a few nights of half-heard whispers from the cell, _not human, that one who does the morning rounds,_ a passing phrase in his ear in the rec room, _he’s gonna hurt you if you don’t get him first,_ plastic cutlery that had conveniently found its way under his pillow… it must have seemed like fate to the poor man. Jonathan only bothered to hide his _glee_ at such a successful experiment when the other guards showed up to restrain the man after his victim’s screaming was finally heard amid the usual chaos of the hallway - he had never even _considered_ that one’s fears could be used to force their hand in such savage ways. It was a _beautiful_ realisation.

Oh, yes. He was imprisoned, but he wasn’t bored, by any means. He resolved to continue with his work as quickly as possible once he got out.

After that, people started behaving a little differently around him. As always, there was no proof he’d done anything, but people could still _tell._ Maybe it was the look of curiosity in his eyes as he regarded people, now. The thoughts and the ideas and the theories he created with every conversation you held. Getting analysed by your doctors is one thing; from an inmate was another entirely. He caught one of the night staff gesturing to his cell and referring to him as _‘Doctor_ _ **fucking**_ _Lecter over there’_ one night.  
He decided to take it as a compliment. He wouldn’t forget their face.

He did wonder - with a short, quiet laugh to himself - if he should try hissing at people, though.

Jonathan went on like this for some time; playing along disinterestedly with his therapy and honing his skills among the minds of the other inmates. He was no fool, though; he did not mingle with the so-called 'A-Listers’ that were currently incarcerated alongside him; only two for the moment, one Harvey Dent and one Harleen Quinzel. He was aware of them both and knew that associating with them could not hold any benefit.

And then Edward re-joined the proverbial ranks, which livened things up splendidly.

When he’d heard the rumours, he surprised himself by being slightly pleased to have the chance to speak with Edward again. The man had been right; it was amazing what intelligent conversation could do for the mind. He hadn’t realised it until now, he too had found himself slightly stifled by the lack of… someone to exchange theories with. The change was a welcome one.

**–**

It’d been a stupid mistake that had gotten him caught in the end. A stupid, stupid, idiotic oversight that he could’ve and should’ve seen. Edward was furious; with Batman; with the GCPD; with Gotham and more importantly with himself. His trip through inmate processing blurred past, only making a small handful of snide remarks at the idiotic jailers. He wouldn’t be here long; he knew that and they knew that, no matter how many times they said _“this is the last time, Nigma.”_ He considered it as more of an alternative greeting at this point - a reflex upon seeing his entry.

So he was sulking in the rec room. Pulled up a chair by the table with the chess board nobody would play him at aside from Jervis in his more lucid moments, but he was absent from the guest list at the moment. So yes, he had resorted to sulking. They took his mask - he _hated_ when he couldn’t wear his mask it made his face- his face was _exposed_ with his eyes on show for everyone to see and just _read_ what he was feeling in the way that baffled him to absolutely no end.

And his vision…

It all just made him feel… flawed. It was **frustrating** and it didn’t help with the already-present anger at his own foolish errors. He barely noticed when Jonathan took up the chair at the other side of the chess table.

“Riddler.”

Jon’s greeting was curt, flat-toned. Edward turned his head slightly to look at him, eyes narrowed; sitting with his hands steepled, he gestured, then, to the board

“Presumably since you’re sitting alone sulking at a chess board, you’d like someone to play. Can’t guarantee I’ll be much of a challenge.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. Then furrowed it again. He couldn’t read Jonathan’s features; wasn’t sure what could’ve happened since his break. You could tell a lot about a person by how they played chess. Did Jonathan know that too?

“You’re on, Doctor Crane.”

They spent the remainder of the recreational time playing. Jonathan, for lack of better words, got absolutely thrashed. He lost count of how many games it was, but that wasn’t the point anyway. After the first game Edward lifted out of his sullen mood, making quick and decisive manoeuvres and running circles around the other. Jon would linger on his moves much, much longer - dragging his gaze slowly across the board, staring at Edward for a moment, utterly expressionless, and then make his move.

Edward tried not to show the mild unease that the lingering glances had planted in his stomach. Jonathan was playing his _own_ game, apparently.

“Are you hoping to read the future in my face, or are you going to make your move? Flattered as I am, my appearance is _not_ actually magical.”

“I’ll move when I’m good and ready.”

“I’m going to die of old age first.”

“Fine by me. I’d finally have a win by technicality.”

“Actually, if the game cannot be brought to a legal conclusion, it is considered a stalemate.”

“Mmh. Shame.”

Jonathan had not stopped staring at him for the duration of the exchange. Jonathan, in fact, was just noting the bizarre colour of the other’s eyes. Such a curious, light greyish colour that he had actually mistaken it initially for cataracts. It was oddly striking. It made him wonder why a man who did so much for drama and aesthetic would hide such a pleasant _(pleasant?)_ face. He recalled his curiosity for Edward’s mask when they’d first met.

“Why _do_ you cover your eyes? Obviously, it isn’t to hide your identity.”

Edward’s face became the picture of indignance.

“That’s- none of your business, is what it is.”

“Come on now, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I just _do._ I like it.”

Edward folded his arms defensively. Jon nodded slowly in response.

“S'fine.”

“….What?”

“Not gonna push it. You’ll tell me if you want to.”

A long pause.

Nobody had ever just… accepted it like that before. Respected his wishes. He was expecting more of a fight; a half-dozen pre-thought defensive arguments died on his tongue.

“…Thank you, Jon. Now play the damn game.”

Finally, mercifully, he did. The gameplay went back to its regular proceedings. Edward actually almost lost that match; the exchange had settled a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, distracting him. It made him a little nauseous - try as he might, he just couldn’t put a name to it but whatever it was it lifted his spirits and the room seemed a little brighter for it and everything he had been brooding over before seemed silly now in hindsight.

Suddenly, the prospect of his stay at Arkham didn’t seem so bad with the presence of a tolerable companion - because he realised just then that it _was_ Jon’s presence that accompanied the feeling and he supposed that so long as the opportunity presented himself he’d be quite happy to whittle away the recreational hours playing chess just like this, actually. His rapid escape plan shifted down his mental ladder of priorities a little.

Yeah, he supposed it could be worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people cannot deal with their emotions and Oh No It Got Sad
> 
> Alternate title: in which Jonathan gains a friend and loses another.

After Edward’s arrival, things got significantly shaken up again; firstly, Jon had something to do other than sew disquiet among people he’d never met, and secondly, against his will, he had acquired yet another…. Friend. He’d had absolutely no intention of associating with Ms - _Dr._ \- Quinzel, but the woman herself had other ideas. Something about how he looked like he could use a friend that _wasn’t_ Edward because nobody deserved to only have him to talk to.

“Hurtful, Harley! Unnecessary, _and_ hurtful!”

“Y'know I’m just messin’ with ya, Eddie!”

So that was how the Scarecrow had found himself dragged into this situation; sitting on the rec room floor, cross-legged around a horribly worn Candyland board, using a checkers piece as his counter - Edward swiped the only original piece the board still had, a yellow gingerbread man. Harley had a cherry-red tiddlywink piece.

“They’re just called **winks,** Jonathan. Come on, it’s common knowledge!”

“Never cared much for board games.”

She was just so full of energy it was actually difficult _not_ to get caught up in whatever she wanted to pull you into; No wonder she was such a dangerous criminal. Charisma is a scary thing. As Jon mused about this, the game began to get heated.

“Harley, that is cheating! ”

“Can’t cheat when there’s no rule book!”

“Well, if we’re going to play like _savages…_ ”

Edward leaned over and flicked Harley’s piece off the board.

She gasped as if he’d committed some sort of war crime.

Jonathan realised now why none of the board games ever got brought out among the rogues. He was tickled by the absurdity of it all. Here was a collection of Gotham’s most dangerous, deadly criminals, squabbling over plastic pieces like children.

“Why can’t we just play something _mature_ like a card game?” Ed huffed.

“ ‘Cuz you count the cards! We’re not stupid!”

“I do not! _Can_ I? Certainly! _Do_ I? No!”

Harley grinned wide, having successfully gotten a rise out of him. It was cute when Edward dropped his fake-sophisticated façade; she thought he hid himself away too much. People too often forgot how very perceptive she was.

Edward’s cheeks had turned a traitorous shade of pinkish-red at the accusation, spreading across his entire face - pouting at how unfair it all was.

Jonathan found it _absurdly_ endearing. There was a bizarre warmth in his chest.  
….Wait, where had **that** come from?  
No, no, no, no.

A guard finally intervened, forcing them to calm down under threatened punishment of being sent to their cells early. Jonathan made some half-muttered excuses and hastily left before either of them could object, opting to return to his cell early anyway - making the excuse of feeling ill and not wishing to make a mess of the carpet to the guard that would escort him back. They did not bother to disagree.

Alone on his bunk - they hadn’t given him another cellmate yet since the last incident - he wondered what the hell had gotten into him just then. He may have been largely absent in empathy, but he wasn’t an idiot; he knew what was happening. This sudden sickly-sweet swelling in his ribcage that was making his every inhale and exhale stick to the back of his throat. He just didn’t have to _like_ it. Why, of all the times, people, places, did it have to be **_him?_** Jon clutched loosely at his chest, willing his shaking breaths to steady. He finally met someone who mutually tolerated him and existed on his level; no judgement of actions; and now he had to deal with this awful mess of a feeling every time he made eye contact with him.

Because he was never going to _act_ on this feeling, not willingly. He’d rather die a hundred deaths before he’d risk that level of rejection. Before he’d ever let himself be that vulnerable, even for a fraction of an instant. He laughed, short and bitter; he was too _afraid_ to. The irony would be hilarious if it weren’t so aggravating. So, for the sake of this friendship that he’d just now realised he was no longer willing to relinquish - _you’re a fool, Crane. Just stop associating with them now before this gets worse._ \- he would simply box this up and suffer. He tried to convince himself it was more logical to maintain his friendships for the sake of alliances on the outside. He almost believed it.

**–**

“Jeez, what got into him? He looked sick all of a sudden.”

“Oh, he always looks like that. Perhaps he got sick of your childish shenanigans, Harley.”

It was a light-hearted tease, but there was a hint of tension in his voice and his face. That _was_ weird. He looked like he’d been having fun - though admittedly it was hard to tell. Maybe Harley was right; Jon must’ve just been sick. Edward would check on him personally later, the locks here were a joke. They still used regular old iron bars with 5-pin tumbler locks. And they wondered why he always escaped so easily? Honestly! He could literally break out of this place whilst sleep-walking. Now _that_ would be a show. He made a mental note of that. But bringing his thoughts back to Jonathan; he was _worried._ In the short time he’d had the pleasure of his company he’d never acted like that. He’d even had that hint of an amused smile playing across his face that he thought nobody could see when he was enjoying himself. And, sure, maybe Ed had been playing up his reactions a little bit so he could see that smile again, but he definitely hadn’t done anything to offend him, right?

Why was he so worried about it?

Harley simply shrugged, frowning lightly. She noticed immediately that Edward was doing that thing again; where he overthinks it and gets himself all up in a tizzy trying to fix things that aren’t even an issue. She clapped him on the shoulder playfully.

“Say, wanna bust out the chessboard?”

“…You. Chess.”

“Sure! I used to play when I was an undergrad.”

“…… Alright, but we’re playing by _my_ rules. That is, the _actual real official_ chess league rules.”

“Fine, fine. I’m still gonna hose ya!”

He lost the first game, and proceeded to win every game after; his fierce competitiveness did wonders for erasing the worries and doubts he’d had. Harley knew this. She also knew that Edward liked to pretend to himself that he didn’t care about people. Maybe Jonathan would be the one who made the difference?

**–**

Later on that night, Edward slipped out of his cell with absolutely no effort. He thought about doing it blindfolded, but that would’ve just made it unnecessarily difficult to find Jon’s cell. Why _was_ he checking on Jonathan, anyway? He didn’t even know for sure that anything was wrong. It didn’t stop that anxious feeling from gnawing at his ribs, though, so he avoided the sparse night patrol and picked out the cell number on the wall map; Jon had told him it a few days prior at Ed’s own insistence that their incarceration did not affect the deal they’d made.

Jonathan was still awake, sitting up in bed with a book in his hand and the sheets draped loosely over his lanky legs that were just a little bit too long for the bed and subsequently caused his feet to remain uncovered. Edward smiled a little at such a natural, yet paradoxically unnatural scene.

Jon almost dropped his book when he finally noticed Edward standing there.

“I know I don’t usually extend the courtesy of asking-” Ed called, in a hushed stage-whisper “But this is an unusual situation. May I come in?”

Jon frowned sternly, but nodded hastily anyway- getting up out of the bed which sat beneath the tiny barred window; flush against the wall. The twilight that trickled through illuminated some _concerningly_ large cob-webs above the bed. He looked… mad? That wasn’t ideal. A moment later the lock on his door also yielded and he stepped hurriedly inside.

Though their voices barely raised above a whisper, Jon’s tone still filled the entire room with his anger.

“What are you _doing_ here? It’s the middle of the damn night.”

Why was he so angry? This’s what he gets for his late-night efforts? He could’ve stayed in his slightly warmer bed and _not_ traipsed barefoot across the freezing stones that made up the Arkham hallways.

“I’ll have you know, Jonathan, that I was…”

He paused, now that he was saying it out loud, he understood how absurd it was.

“I was _worried_ about you after your speedy exit from the rec room this morning. You’re _welcome,_ by the way.”

Jonathan’s face changed in a way he couldn’t really make out in the dark of the room. It changed a few times, he looked like he was running a veritable gauntlet of the entire emotional spectrum. This only served to confuse Edward more.

“I am _fine._ I _appreciate_ the concern.”

The terse dismissal served only to annoy Edward further.

“What the Hell’s gotten into you, Jonathan? I can’t have possibly-” There was a spider approximately the size of a small dog crawling out from under Jonathan’s bed. Edward _swore_ it was the biggest arachnid he’d ever seen. He could feel the colour draining out of his face.

Jonathan’s anger was broken up by curiosity. He wanted Edward to leave. Now. He was attempting to sort through these rogue emotions and the last thing he wanted was to act on an impulse he would regret if he allowed Edward to stay in his company.

God, the man had actually _worried_ about him. He was so utterly undeserving of it.

At least in the dark he couldn’t see his eyes. He followed Edward’s gaze to the small-ish spider that seemed to have set up home under his bunk. Looked like a wolf spider, too dark to tell. He knew fine and well Edward might never forgive him for this, but he needed him to leave and … well… he was _curious_ now. How he’d look with panic spread over that pleasant face.

He walked over to it, crouched down, and after a little gentle persuasion ( there had been dead flies accumulating on the windowsill for days now ) he had scooped the thing up into his hands. Intelligent little creature. Edward, all the while, had been gradually backing up in the direction of the door, babbling half-audible warnings about keeping away from it, not knowing what species that was, how unsanitary arachnids were. Jonathan turned slowly on his heels with a cruel little smirk.

“What’s the matter, Edward? Scared of a little old thing like this? She’s harmless.”

“Jonathan, I’m warning you-” his voice was growing dangerously loud, it was going to attract attention.

“You have three seconds before this little creature gets the chance to know you _much_ more… intimately, Ed.”

Jon’s tone was nasty, unpleasant, and dead serious.

“Get out. Now.”

Edward sneered at him, as furious as he was fearful at the prospect of having that _thing_ on him. How _dare_ he treat Edward like another one of his subjects? Fine! He’d leave. He’d leave and he’d never come back. That’d show him. He’d break out in a week’s time and Jonathan would never need to look at his face again. He felt a pang of something bitter amid the anger and the terror at the thought, and he promptly stormed out before he could become completely overwhelmed by it all.

Finally alone again, Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and released the placid spider back onto the floor. At least _one_ of the living things in this room was happy. He sighed. A tired sigh that dropped him into a slouch and caused his shoulders to slope alongside him. A sigh so heavy he felt as if he’d aged a decade by the end of it. He would probably regret that. But, he reminded himself, he had no time for regrets or doubts. He had his path and he was going to walk it to his conclusion.

Jonathan rolled over, under the sheets, closed his eyes, and laid awake there the entire night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which well-deserved apologies are given.

Edward went missing about two days after the incident in Jonathan’s cell; he was somewhat surprised by the severity of the reaction. Certainly, it had been… for lack of better words, ‘a dick move’ as his ex-students would put it (were they still mentally sound), but to go so far as to cause his departure from asylum so very hastily was… an unexpected consequence. He had wanted to apologise; after all, the reason he’d reacted so was in an attempt to _preserve_ their continued contact. It quickly dawned on him that perhaps he had damaged things beyond repair - hinted at by the sinking feeling in his chest upon hearing the rumours of Ed’s escape. These foolish emotions; he would much rather _observe_ their effects than feel them for himself. So he swallowed the feeling down and turned his hand back to his new favourite pastime, now that he lacked his favourite conversation partner; experimentation. Lots of it. There were so many, many inmates, guards, doctors - and all he had was time, time, time.

So much time, that he soon lost track of the days and the nights and everything in-between as he talked circles around his apathetic doctors and worked through cell-mates faster than they could replace them; not that the staff cared that these people would drop like flies around him. It was less or a burden to them; their poor overworked rotas. They couldn’t justify solitary, or _any_ kind of punishment, without proof he’d done it since he wasn’t a particularly 'high risk’ villain. Not _yet._

_and, well,_

he chuckled to himself.

_they weren’t ever going to get any proof._

Harley stopped talking to him, too. After a while of attempting to break through this bizarre mood that had taken him. He wasn’t really sure when. Not doing so well on the 'friends’ front anymore; aside from his newest little companion. The wandering wolf spider had started nesting in his hair at some point during the colder nights; he tolerated its presence - it hadn’t bitten him, kept the cell free of other pests, and most importantly added to his generally unsettling appearance. If it stuck around long enough he might give it a name.

He stopped sleeping again, having found the time to work long into the nights with no marker for what the hour was and typically no cell-mate to become irate at the activity. It took a significant toll on him, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t willing to sacrifice. The lack of… company to keep him grounded was beginning to have the same effect as before. Human contact, as it would have it, seemed to be a bit of a psychological anchor. Or perhaps it was just another hindrance to his life’s work; his greatest interest, fascination, obsession.

It was convenient, then, when they finally moved him to the Intensive Treatment building. No more shared spaces; much quieter; he used to dislike being alone with his thoughts, but now it was really quite pleasant. Times like these were when his greatest ideas would spark to life; and he had so very _many_ now to keep him occupied when he would have his freedom. His thoughts felt different like this; almost like when one tries to picture a strange voice speaking words you’ve never heard them speak. The only problem he had with this arrangement, he mused, was that it was _too_ calm now. His mind was sluggish with the maddening peace, no screaming inmates, no worrying about sudden violent episodes from the less stable others; it craved some sort of input. The absolute apathy made his skin itch; like it did when he taught, first started experimenting with his wondrous toxin. There was nothing _here_ for him; he was getting _restless._

As luck would have it, in this haze, someone else took action on his behalf. Harvey Dent, it seemed, had also had enough of the drab asylum walls. A containment breach of this scale was exactly the distraction he needed; whatever his goons had done, they’d inadvertently opened half the cells on the island. He thought quickly; all it really took was a short stop at one of the staff rooms; a looted body and a stolen staff uniform. In the rush to evacuate the night staff, all he had to do in the end was behave normally to be escorted off by a security van.

It truly was amazing what a simple uniform could accomplish so long as you kept your head down and looked as though you knew what you were doing - his little companion almost gave the game away once or twice, though.

It had been more tempting than he would have liked to admit to stay behind amid the chaos and the panic and the fear to just _take it all in_ for a while. However, he now had work to get back to - obviously, his lab was seized after his arrest, but this was a trivial matter. He’d made a safe stockpile when he sensed the authorities closing in, from there; well, he had a _reputation_ now, and _fear_ was something highly valued in this city. A unique service he was delighted to give, _more_ so to be paid for it; the next few weeks were as much a blur as the ones just prior served in Arkham - though _much_ more interesting - a whirlwind of research, terror, hastily scribbled chemical formulas; blackmail, death threats, protection rackets, all of it went straight back into his lab. The rush of it all, the gas, the police, the fear of being caught; or killed; perhaps even worse; it dispersed the crushing apathy and kept his mind sharp as a whip-crack.

It was after one of his week-long gauntlets he woke up, joints and muscles loudly proclaiming their distaste of his nightly activities; sitting bleary-eyed and squinting at his workbench in the tired haze that comes moments after awakening that he placed another irritating feeling gnawing at his ribcage. The one that wouldn’t go away when he sat quietly long enough. He’d heard that the Riddler was becoming more… unhinged these days, since Jon had escaped; crueller traps, televised games - Jon never watched TV much, he’d never caught one live - that ended in glorified executions more often than not. In and out of Arkham so quickly he was making the doctor’s heads spin with it. There was a connection to be made, there. Jon wasn’t sure if it was a connection he _wished_ to make but the reality of it was he doubted this foolish feeling digging its claws into his chest, furious and spiteful as the man he’d offended, was ever going to let go unless he… _did_ something. Then he would finally know. Either it would work, or it wouldn’t. He had nothing further to lose, after all. It may have come as a surprise to some (certainly to himself) that he actually had some shredded, twisted semblance of a conscience. Human, after all, then.

_**Damn**_ it.

**–**

Edward briefly considered that perhaps he’d over-reacted slightly. Slightly! But, he argued internally, he _always_ over-reacted to things. So, _really,_ was this not a perfectly _average_ reaction by his standards? Certainly, his puzzles had inclined in difficulty a tad; but that wasn’t because he was bitter. He just felt that it was high time he sped up the process of weeding out the stupid and the uncultured and the wastrels of Gotham; if they were content to be utterly average and contribute nothing for the rest of their days, he was content to _shorten_ those days quite considerably!

He spent his time tinkering and modifying his gauntlets to absurdly meticulous degrees; forgot all about Jonathan for a while, until the break-out, that is. Then he remembered how mad he was to have been so utterly disrespected by one of the few he called ‘friend’; the utter lack of remorse or even the smallest tokens of an attempted apology. Well, that was the last time _he_ went out socialising. He never did in his youth and he didn’t want to now. Yes, he realised that this… perfectly _regular_ reaction was caused in no small part by the childish infatuation he’d acquired - but he was above all that. He flatly refused to attempt contact and stubbornly continued the way things had always been, his enthusiasm for his criminal career freshly renewed, his rapid pattern of escape and recapture likely had them considering installing a revolving door in his cell. Because no prison could hold him, _really!_ Especially not that rickety old run-down shambles of an asylum.

It was during his rare periods of downtime that the unthinkable finally happened - well, unthinkable was a strong word. Highly unlikely? Astronomically low in chance? Whichever is most applicable, he thought. Anyway-

During these quiet periods of recovery Edward would often retire to a particularly secluded safehouse where he would tinker and code and otherwise turn his hand to more relaxing pursuits than the constant extravagant performances he so often put on for the hapless masses of Gotham City. It never failed to work wonders for his mind and his mood and this time was no different.

Just then, a brief alarm flashed up, in his computer room, signalling the tripping of a puzzle room trigger. On a whim, he decided to observe whomever it was that had blundered their way in; he recalled that this was the room with the Cane-based riddle. A personal favourite of his. Before he could even reach the monitor, though, a separate light signalled its immediate completion. That was… curious.

Oh.

The sight before him, rendered out on the somewhat-cheap surveillance monitor, well, it certainly was… surprising. Pleasantly surprising? He wasn’t quite sure. Couldn’t put his finger on it

Jonathan stood with his gaze averted from the security camera, having simply wandered in and swiftly re-solved the very first death trap he’d stumbled into so long ago. Puzzle room, he corrected. It felt like an absolute lifetime ago, despite less than a year having had passed. He grimaced slightly, not exactly delighted by the situation he’d put himself in. He just hoped Edward would see the funny side and opt not to trigger the death trap. He held up a scrap of paper to the view of the camera.

_'I BELIEVE I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY.’_

it read.

_'I AM A FOOL.’_

The second part was purely for Edward’s benefit. Not that it wasn’t _true,_ mind. It just took him longer than any sane person to realise. He did miss his company. Quite dearly, in fact. Dearly enough, it seemed, to allow himself such a crippling knock to the pride. Not that it was easy; he’d never live this down if it didn’t work. But just this once, he was willing to let himself be _vulnerable_ for the barest moment and take the gamble that Edward would understand.

And,

_Well,_

Edward thought.

_Well… it’s definitely a start._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things finally settle down a little and Jon gets put through the wringer.

Jonathan was lucky that he hadn’t killed him right then and there, stood at his complete mercy in one of his own traps. Yes, it was definitely luck and nothing more. Another whim of his good mood, and his sense of fair play. Not the look of embarrassment on his face nor his pathetically dishevelled appearance which suggested he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since Edward made his escape that first time - the implication of the latter made him swallow dryly. He would not be so quick to forgive, however; if he thought an endearingly sentimental apology note was going to cut it, Jonathan had another thing coming. But… he’d hear him out. This **once.** the last thing he needed was people thinking he’d gone _soft,_ after all!

He wondered why Jonathan hadn’t simply tried to contact him through the regular channels. Making meaningful gestures was _Edward’s_ thing. Frowning lightly, he reached blindly across his workbench for his phone; it used an incredibly secure network of his own making. He punched in the numbers - Yes, he _had_ gone out of his way to find out Jonathan’s contact details; so he could make a _point_ of not using them, to prove… to prove _something_ to himself - and dialled it in. The startled look that briefly crossed Jon’s face made him smirk; there was a sort of audible smile to his tone when the other dropped the scrap of paper and fumbled for the ringing phone in his pocket - _startled,_ but not at all _surprised_ by it.

“Jonathan.”

It hung quiet for a moment.

“Edward. I appreciate your not gassing me immediately upon entry.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I haven’t made my mind up.”

Jonathan paused, measuring his words. He… wasn’t really expecting to actually face Edward so soon already. Ed spoke up again first.

“Not very good at this, are you? One would think one would try harder when their life quite literally lays on the line. Or perhaps you’re just getting a kick out of it, who knows? I certainly-”

Jon gathered his breath.

“I’m sorry, Edward. I’ve no good excuse for what happened. I was simply acting like a complete fool.”

He heard Edward huff quietly over the line.

“Yes, you _were_. Acting like a total idiot. When I was attempting to show _concern_ for you, of all times!”

He had prepared so many speeches in his head to cut Jonathan down in the coldest, most efficient way possible, but this was so… blunt. Utterly honest. Jonathan had put himself at his complete mercy in this way; he had cameras _and_ traps at his disposal. It had thrown him completely off-kilter, honestly. He wasn’t expecting _this._ He was trying to be angry with him, damn it!

He saw Jon glance briefly up to the camera, then away again. If it weren’t for the poor monitor quality, he’d have staked a bet that he actually looked _guilty._ Now that _must_ have been a trick of the light. That was not fair.

“As I said, I’ve no excuse. And no good excuse for my continued absence after my escape, either.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware of what you were up to after Dent’s ham-fisted half-assed breakout. Information and intelligence are my most valued commodities. I’m sure it simply slipped your mind during your toxin-induced months-long bender. It’s honestly _amazing_ that your addiction to mortal danger hasn’t _killed_ you yet.”

“…Of course. It had never been my intention-”

“You look like garbage, by the way. You look like you’ve been sleeping homeless for a month.”

He saw Jonathan’s mouth hang open, taken aback slightly. Edward bit his lip, trying not to let his sly grin be too audible through his tone.

“I think I can smell you through the camera. If they decide to re-make _Castaway_ I’m putting you at the top of the casting list.”

Jon frowned indignantly.

“Edward-”

“No, no. I’m still pissed off at you. You deserve this.”

Jonathan sighed an indescribably tired sigh.

He did.

“…I do.”

“Good! We’re in agreement.”

This continued on for approximately twenty minutes before Edward was suitably smugly satisfied with the thorough verbal dressing-down he’d given his friend. More importantly, he had the entire ordeal on disc, which left him with a larger measure of control than Jon could be entirely comfortable with. But this was the exchange for their continued interaction; Jonathan had been equal parts exhausted and impressed by the vulgar creativity he was capable of when he set his haughtiness aside; decidedly dragged through the mud, things were… more or less forgiven. It was a shaky, tentative re-alliance. Edward did not trust easily, he’d discovered.

Following the methodical verbal dissection, Jonathan bid his farewells, went home, and was promptly overcome by the exhaustion he’d accrued over the past couple weeks - he’d actually left to speak with Edward the moment the impulse had taken him; which had been mere moments after waking up from the previous day’s escapade. It was a _measurably_ more restful sleep than he’d had in quite some time.

It wasn’t until a day or few later that Edward started breaking into his home again; proclaiming rather loudly as Jon came home that _if he was going to continue visiting him then the place was going to have to measure up to the barest standards of cleanliness he had!_ Which, incidentally, was still absurdly high by _Jon’s_ standards. This was probably also a passive-aggressive extension of Edward’s ire. He wasn’t really complaining, despite the resulting misplacement of a fair number of his instruments.

“I mean _really,_ Jonathan. Did you just grow fond of the abject squalor at Arkham? Decide to keep the aesthetic?”

“Been busy, that’s all.”

“No no no. _I’ve_ been busy. _You’ve_ been-”

Edward’s sentence broke off with a strangled squeak as he turned and caught sight of _movement_ in Jonathan’s hair and his stomach seemed to drop through the floor, then puffed up angrily.

“Is this a _joke?_ ”

Jonathan had no clue what he was talking about until he felt the newly-familiar tickling across his hairline.

Oh.

_Shit._

He’d forgotten.

Jon’s eyes widened a little bit, stiffening in an attempt to quickly correct the situation.

“Now just hold on-”

“ **Seriously??** Did you really go through _all_ of this just to-”

“Edward.”

Something about Jonathan’s expression interrupted his thought process- he’d never seen the man look so openly visibly distressed since he’d met him, and an amount of colour had gathered at his cheeks. Edward inhaled, slowly, and relaxed his shoulders.

_Fine, fine._

“I am expecting a _very good_ explanation for this.”

Jonathan frowned a little indignantly.

“I. Uh… Became quite fond of her. After you left.”

“You… got attached. To a spider.”

Scarecrow. Self-proclaimed Master of Fear. Had become attached to a small spider. Was _letting it nest in his hair._ He needed a second to process the catastrophic mental shutdown this information had caused.

There was a long pause.

“…Yeah.”

The anger and indignation had more or less evaporated by this point. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Jonathan frowned harder - the arachnid came to rest hanging just above his eyebrow. It was too much; he doubled over laughing.

Jonathan was absolutely _baffled_ by Edward’s uncanny ability to switch moods at the drop of a coin. His laughter was sweet, though; compared to the hearty fake stage laugh he employed in his criminal performances. _Giggling,_ even. It made that warm sickly sweet feeling swallow up his heart in the way it always does; he was starting to enjoy the sensation. In that brief instant he could’ve told you with total conviction that he’d make a fool of himself a hundred times to see Edward collapsing into uncontrollable fits of giggles and snorts like this. At least he could attribute the burning in his cheeks to embarrassment; his face had remained the picture of indignation while he worked through the _emotional short-circuit_ he’d just suffered.

Edward lifted his mask ever-so-slightly in order to wipe the tears out of his eyes.

“I can’t _believe_ you- you- _replaced_ me with a _spider!_ I suppose now I’m going to have to compete with it for your attention like some sort of trashy rom-com, aren’t I?”

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

**–**

Gotham (particularly the GCPD) was incredibly grateful of the re-alliance that they were never really even aware had occurred. From the city’s point of view, the Riddler and the Scarecrow simply finally toned down their frantic activity a little and everyone could rest a tad easier for it.

They settled back into the rhythm of before; enjoying one another’s company. Edward abjectly refused to get within 5 feet of Jon for a while so long as his companion - lovingly dubbed ‘Aria’ by Edward, who flatly refused to let Jonathan choose a name with the argument that he would undoubtedly pick something so embarrassing she would run away from home - remained on Jon’s person.

They’d settled into a comfortable silence in Jon’s living room, it had passed quite late into the evening and they were content to remain in each other’s presence while Jonathan scribbled horribly untidy notes of theories and formulae into his worn old notebook and Edward overthought things that he knew didn’t really matter.

_the journal wasn’t even_ _ **old,**_ Edward mused, watching the other’s hands work quickly down the pages.  
 _Things just seem to look weathered when they stay in proximity to him too long. It’s like he has an area of effect that just causes furniture to_ _ **age.**_ _Fascinating._

He rested his head in one hand. Drew a long breath. Something about the atmosphere, the bizarrely intimate silence finally caused a welling up in his chest that made Edward speak up.

“…I’m colourblind.”

The quiet scratching of pencil against paper came to an instant stop, but Jonathan didn’t look up. Edward paused, heartbeat quickening. Why did he admit that? He’d never revealed this weakness to any of the others. This… mistake in his biology. A defect he could never truly fix. He’d nothing to gain from it. But then, nobody had spared the fraction of time it took to even _ask_ before Jon had. Whether it was because he was simply curious or because he cared; it didn’t matter. He’d _paid attention_ and after all was that not all he demanded people do in order to become more intelligent?

“You asked why I never take this mask off. I’m severely colourblind. Short-sighted, to top it off.”

Jonathan set the pencil down quietly. Ed swallowed.

“I’m telling you because I trust you won’t abuse this.”

There was an unspoken threat behind his tone.

“Completely deuteranopic. Greens, reds, and purples. I always did enjoy taking things I was told I couldn’t have. These-”

He pressed a finger to the edge of his mask.

“Are corrective. I created the tech with my own two hands. I detest having them removed and being reminded of the irritating imperfection. Amongst other things. That’s all there is to it. Trivial, really.”

As he spoke, Jonathan had turned to face him - an obvious question resting on his features. He wasn’t really capable of grasping just how difficult the admission was for Edward, but… he had a sense of it. The notion of being trusted with such information made it feel as though his chest might crack open with the effort of trying to contain the rogue emotion.

“Thank you, Edward.” Was all he could muster in response; hoping that the emotion in his voice could put across what he didn’t have the words to convey.

Edward held his gaze for a few impossibly long seconds more before the intimacy of the moment became more than Ed could comfortably tolerate without babbling anxiously.

“Seriously. If - If you tell anyone about that, I’ll tear you _and_ your stupid little spidery companion apart, you hear me?”

Jonathan laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans go south very quickly

It had actually been Jonathan who'd approached him with the proposal of a certain collaboration that he had been carefully considering the past week or two. By some way or another, it had come to his attention that it neared a full year since the birth of the Scarecrow, and the following tirade of panic he'd created in his wake. It'd caused him to reflect on the absolute whirlwind of events that had come to pass between then and now, and turned his thoughts to the place it had all begun, and it dawned on him with a sort of wicked joy that, in his first frantic efforts against the students he had perceived as having slighted him, he'd neglected to appropriately punish the University faculty themselves for their transgressions against him. As luck would have it, there was a fundraising event drawing near that would do just perfectly for his appearance.  
  
A gift to himself, then.  
  
Edward's involvement did not take much persuasion, Jonathan had come to know him far too well; the prospect of stealing the show (quite literally) at such a high-profile event, the opportunity to humiliate overly confident, ignorant men of _'intelligence'_. Both proved far, far too tempting as Jon walked him through his terrifying vision with barely-masked excitement and impassioned gestures. Even if the heist hadn't been to his tastes, Jon was really rather skilled at persuading him. He'd even won him over in regards to his "five feet berth" rule whilst Aria remained on his person. That didn't stop his heart rate spiking violently whenever she moved too quickly, though. Fast little bastard.  
  
The preparations proceeded smoothly from there. Jonathan was finally in a position where he had both the time and resources to pull off something like this, and Edward's sharp eye for detail and planning was of immeasurable help.  
  
The annual fundraiser for Gotham City University was about as extravagant as one could imagine. Aged though the building was, it had always seen a large number of wealthy benefactors and the inside of the building was an overly-decorated reminder of that fact; all bone-white marble and plush hanging drapes that had absolutely no business in a place of knowledge. The absurd decadence of the place always grated his nerves.  
  
So, when the power to the main hall was cut, the stiff fake-polite chatter dropped to silence near instantly. Edward strode out into the centre-stage of the otherwise empty second-floor balcony. Only a few auxiliary lights above his head remained lit, allowing him to be instantly recognisable. The room was at once filled from corner-to-corner with his presence, all eyes following him as he sauntered from the wings and took his place at the top of the staircase. He had no microphone, but his voice rang out so clearly and loudly you'd be forgiven for wrongly assuming so.  
  
"Greetings! Greeting, my dear, _dear_ socialites, professors, whatever _other_ so-called men of high-standing in attendance."  
  
The brief lapse into silence as he paused for effect saw fit to break the spell he had across the small crowd, the smarter ones immediately making for the door - to be stopped dead in their tracks by the visage of a ragged figure stalking his way up the darkened hallway that was their exit. The small amount of light that eeked in from the windows reflected against the Scarecrow's aged gas mask and caused the tint of the goggles to flash yellow. A low laugh dragged across the marble walls as metal across porcelain. Those who attempted escape retreated hastily back to where the Riddler was still addressing them.  
  
" -Consider it a game, if you all would. After all, if you're the people of high standing and good breeding you claim to be, this should prove an amusing little distraction to your… _intellects._ \- "  
  
Scarecrow clasped a hand around the shoulder of a dignitary. Leaned in close, eyes dancing with amusement as he flinched and jerked his head away reflexively.  
  
"Perhaps you should take a seat." He rasped. Dug his fingernails in.  
  
Edward continued on in the background to his captive audience, outlining their game.  
  
It was at least two hours before anyone on the outside realised anything had gone wrong. The first responders were greeted by the sight of petrified party-goers lining the darkened halls, some still fleeing from invisible demons. Half the building ransacked; namely the antique library and chemistry store closets. The other half vandalised with glow-in-the-dark green paint; obscure and indecipherable questions scrawled on the walls. It was mere moments, then, before the Dark Knight arrived on-scene to put a stop to it.  
  
Edward had the misfortune of encountering him first; Jonathan heard the ruckus in the hallway from a mile off after the screams of their guests had died down. It was faint - probably a few rows away. He was positively giddy at the prospect of a showdown, but now was not the time nor the place for getting arrested.  
  
 _But,_ he thought, _fleeing had its own accompanying thrills too, now, didn't it?_  
  
Things went sideways at an astounding pace from there; breaking into a sprint, he sighted Edward turning a corner - a surprisingly fast runner, actually - and caught him by the crook of the arm, pulling him in and covering his mouth with a hand to silence the girly scream that always accompanied a startled Riddler. Edward was flushed red with exhaustion, gasping erratically.  
  
"Time- to leave- … preferably now!"  
  
"You don't say?"  
  
He glanced across the room they were in. Locked eyes with the window. They were on the second floor, and there was _just_ enough space between the windows…  
  
Edward couldn't see his face, but he caught the mischievous gleam in Jon's eyes.  
  
"Oh, no. No no no. I'd rather be arrested-"  
  
"If you've a better plan, I'd love to hear it."  
  
They heard heavy footsteps drawing close. Edward said nothing. Jonathan quickly undid one of the many lengths of rope that adorned his outfit and handed him one, quickly striding across to wedge the window open.  
  
"Wh-?"  
  
"Might need it."  
  
Edward puffed up in that way he always did when he was about to have a tantrum and Jonathan gave him no time to voice it - grabbed him by the wrist and took off running for the window with him in tow.  
  
\--  
  
 _Well,_ Jonathan mused. _Perhaps that could've gone better._  
  
It was a narrow escape, to be certain. While the hasty exit through the window had succeeded in breaking the chase, Edward's landing had been… less than stellar. Huddled into a doorway in a narrow back-alley they waited for the proverbial coast to clear. He strained to listen for commotion; silence interrupted by quiet, breathy whimpers at his right when Edward shifted too much weight onto one side. Ed took a moment to catch his breath gripping at Jonathan's shoulder, muttering with a heated fury.  
  
"I _told_ you that was a terrible idea!"  
  
"Got away, didn't we? I thought performers knew how to take a fall."  
  
"Not from two damn storeys! You maniac!"  
  
Jonathan hushed him as sirens blew by, only proceeding when the night air fell silent again  
  
"…Don't suppose you've any safehouses nearby? Unless you'd like to sleep in this doorway."  
  
The silence hung for a few long moments. Edward glanced at the surroundings, shifted, then sighed a sharp huffy sigh. Clenched his jaw.  
  
"Yes. One."  
  
Jonathan was piqued by the terse tone, but chose not to press. The last thing he wanted was to irk him like this.  
  
It took a while, but under Edward's guidance he managed to drag both their weights to the door, hastily fumbling to get inside.  
  
Jon tugged his gas mask down from his face and regarded the small apartment.  
  
"Don't." Edward threatened.  
  
It… was not what he would've expected from the man who'd insisted on forcibly deep-cleaning Jon's apartment.  
  
"Do not say a word."  
  
"Didn't say anything."  
  
"I swear to God--"  
  
It was a complete mess. Not… not necessarily _dirty_ , per se. Disorganised. It looked like several extreme hoarders had taken up residence in his home in Edward's absence. There was all matter of bits and pieces of hardware, tools, boxes; lining the hallway. It took every ounce of agility Jonathan had to pick his way through it with Edward's arm slung around his shoulders. Upon reaching what would normally be considered a living room he was met with something more akin to a padded room; blankets were strewn across the floor, two couches, a lump that he suspected was a mattress under the numerous comforters and a pristine computer rig tucked into the corner of the room. He looked down to Edward for guidance and found that in his silence his face burned bright red with embarrassment, spilling out from under his mask.  
  
"Edward."  
  
"Shut up." He snapped.  
  
…He didn't fully grasp why his friend was so bothered by this, but accepted it nonetheless.  
  
"…Don't worry about it. I won't mention it."  
  
Edward blinked slowly up him, brow furrowed. He gestured silently to a low couch and Jonathan lowered him slowly onto it.  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
Sure, it was weird - but it wasn't even close to the weirdest thing he'd seen. Plus, he'd be a massive hypocrite if he were to criticize. And, yes, maybe he would have jabbed at him teasingly for it at any other normal occasion, but now wasn't the time for it.  
  
Edward slumped backwards, head rested against the couch back, fixing the ceiling with an exhausted stare. He closed his eyes slowly and pried off his mask, finally allowing himself to relax in a completely safe surrounding.  
  
"Thank you. For not leaving me back there."  
  
It was Jonathan's turn to blink slowly. The thought literally hadn't even occurred to him. Perhaps if he'd been working with a different partner, but not Edward.  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
They lapsed into silence again. Edward placed his domino to the side and loosened his tie, then shucked his waistcoat - it was all restricting his ribcage, making it hard to breathe. Jonathan set aside his own mask and sat down amid the blankets, kneeling on his legs. He stared up at Edward from his seated position. This scene, him resting with his head tilted back, just slightly; hair mussed and otherwise utterly unrecognisable from the usual pristine style; it was… stunning. He swallowed.  
  
"The rib broken?"  
  
"Doesn't feel like it. My best guess is a torn muscle."  
  
"…You want me to take a look?"  
  
A brief look of confusion passed over Edward's face. Jon continued.  
  
"Perhaps you'd forgotten, I am a doctor."  
  
"Not the last time I checked."  
  
Edward opened an eye with the intent of teasing him, but his expression was dead serious. _Concerned_ , even. It made his heart jolt a little. He breathed a rattling sigh that hitched as a spike of pain poked through his side.  
  
"Alright, do your worst. -- Don't really, though."  
  
Jon nodded, rose from his spot on the floor, and knelt over him. Edward held his breath as Jonathan loosened the buttons of his shirt - pausing briefly to discard his fear gas rig - and set about pressing light touches in a trail down Edward's ribs. Jonathan's gaze was fixed on his task, frowning in concentration.  
  
Neither of them said anything about the colour rapidly collecting in both of the men's cheeks.  
  
Jon finally pulled his hands away after a few moments of Edward wincing and squirming in pain and most immediately missed the contact. He almost forgot to actually voice his opinion.  
  
"Feels like you're right."  
  
"Aren't I always?" Edward smirked.  
  
Jonathan paused as if taken by a stray thought. He looked down, quietly musing to himself.  
  
 _"You are, aren't you?"_  
  
Edward went wide-eyed, cheeks renewed with colour once more. Jon quickly righted himself from his kneeling position and moved for his mask and his rig.  
  
"I'll get out of your hair. Find someplace nearby. You're gonna want to stay off your feet-"  
  
"Jon."  
  
Jonathan's gaze remained fixed to the floor. Edward continued hesitantly.  
  
"Would you… stay? Here? With me? …Please?" His voice trailed off near-silently as Jonathan looked up to meet his gaze; the soft expression on his face made Jon's heart feel as though it'd burst - too full; too much; far too much to keep back, he found, dropping his things back onto the floor unceremoniously to re-join his companion on the couch - pushing the discarded clothes away. He grasped Ed's shoulder gently - uncertain of what else to do with his hands, but needing to do _something_.  
  
"…That would be preferable."  
  
Edward smiled weakly. Out of everything he'd been through today, asking that of his partner had been the most terrifying thing he'd done. He clasped his hand around Jonathan's. Jon rid himself of the ragged, scratchy suit jacket and tie and slowly, they settled down amid the blankets that were draped across the couch; as if one were afraid the other would break if they proceeded too hastily. Edward leaned carefully into his chest, positioned as best he possibly could without aggravating his ribcage. Jonathan's arm slipped around his waist on one side, Edward felt Jon's bizarrely cold nose press hesitantly into the crook of his neck and the light breathy sigh he exhaled. A wide, tired grin crept along his face and he turned his head slightly to rest his cheek against the other's shoulder. He didn't even care that his precious plan had gone sideways, this was absolutely worth it.  
  
Shifting lightly beneath him, Jonathan hooked his other arm around Edward as well; daring to smooth his hands lightly across his stomach while staying wary of the other's injuries. Were it safe to do so, Jonathan would quite liked to have been able to draw him as close as possible in a tight embrace; but this would have to do. He would need to learn how to best deal with these… impulses. His head was swimming with an affection he didn't think he was capable of feeling, and he would be quite happy to remain in this position for as long as he was able.  
  
Finally, finally comforted by one another's presence and against all the odds, restful sleep came nipping at their heels - more relaxed than either of them could ever recall being in the past. This was good. Perfect. Something they both hoped beyond hope would become a regular occurrence in the most immediate future.  
  
It was… nice.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which edward's kitchen is poorly stocked.

 

They woke more or less in the same position they'd fallen asleep together in; Though Edward had wormed his way up to nestle his face into the side of Jonathan's neck, and their limbs were haphazardly entangled due to the small couch space. Spurred awake by the unpleasant stabbing in his side, Edward reluctantly shifted to correct the issue his ribcage was so displeased about. Jonathan quietly stirred, and Edward cursed internally. He'd wanted to lay like this, semi-conscious and pleasantly warm, for at least another hour before they would have to fully awaken and… talk about this. He was dreading it; he couldn't place why. Maybe it was the thought of making things… _official._ As if confirming its existence meant he truly had something to lose now. As if ignoring it would stop that happening.

Spidery hands made sluggish through the thick veil of sleep drew closer around his shoulders as Jonathan clumsily reached around and clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle a low, drawn-out yawn. Edward most immediately missed the weight of arms draped around him as his impromptu human pillow stretched out lazily beneath him. It was not until Edward shifted conspicuously that the realisation of his location dawned on him and Jonathan's eyes flicked quickly open, half-lidded and still addled by sleep. A few words caught and stuck in his throat - too deep and to quiet to catch - before he found his voice.

"…G'morning."

Edward offered a light smile. His voice didn't sound much better; breathy and cracking.

"Afternoon, most likely."

A beat of silence passed.

"Too late for breakfast?" Jonathan hesitantly offered.

Edward started to respond and was quickly, rudely interrupted by his poor neglected empty stomach; eliciting a short, gravelly chuckle from the other. Breakfast at lunchtime sounded pretty good - inevitable serious emotional discussions were dropping down his priority list pretty quickly.

"I think I can allow that this once."

With some amount of effort, they disentangled; Edward winced and complained all the while whenever too sharp a movement was made. At Jonathan's offering, he picked his way carefully past the boxes and various bits of machinery and computer parts- _'Jon if you break anything-'_ \- and moved into the kitchen to see what he could do. He quirked an eyebrow at the contents of the fridge, leaned back to call through the open doorway.

"Would you like to tell me where the real food is, or should I just improvise?"

_"I like snacks!"_ came the muffled, indignant response.

…right. Improvising, then.

**\--**

A few minutes later, Jonathan found himself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, having begrudgingly settled on grabbing a few handfuls of the various snacks and candies that comprised the food stores in the safehouse and brewed two cups of tea.

It occurred to him that perhaps this situation was a lot more absurd than he thought it was. Maybe Arkham had messed with his head more than he thought; after a certain point, you just stopped noticing how absurd everything you were doing really was. Jonathan decided not to think too hard about it. He had better things to worry about at the moment, and his curiosity was getting the better of him.

"This is a strange safehouse."

Edward shot a glare his way, utterly failing to look threatening with his mouth full, only succeeding in looking like an irate hamster. He swallowed.

"Yours isn't any better. I think it officially qualifies as a biohazard."

"Didn't say I was judging, but you had to know I was going to get curious."

His firey look fizzled out a little.

"This… is… where I go when I disappear on rare occasions. Supervillains need holidays too, you know. So once every now and then, I…"

"Slob out?" Jonathan suggested, swiftly dodging a balled-up candy wrapper thrown in his direction.

"For lack of better words - yes. I'm starting to get uncomfortable with the number of secrets of mine you have over my head. I'm going to run out."

"You still have my recorded formal apology."

"Oh yes, I do, don't I?"

Edward grinned warmly at the memory. Yes, fair's fair, then.

Silence fell for a moment again, before Jonathan piped up.

"I'd like to do this again."

Edward cast another candy wrapper aside into the tiny, neat pile he'd made; colour co-ordinated. He smirked a little.

"I don't think Gotham University's board of directors could handle that on a regular basis."

"You know fine and well that wasn't what I was referring to."

"…Well, I…"

The smirk fell from his face. He felt anxiety prickling in his chest. Cast his gaze downward. What was the matter with him? Jon frowned, hard. Had he somehow misread something? He wasn't _that_ emotionally oblivious.

"Don't- Don't look at me like that. It's… "

It wasn't often that Edward was so utterly lost for words, but it was always when he needed them most that they left him. It was frustrating and never failed to get his hackles up.

Jonathan sat patiently while he attempted to sort through the tangled mess of words bottlenecking in his chest. He _knew_ his internal argument was weak, he'd enjoyed this morning, and he'd be quite happy to injure himself on a regular basis to do this again, and that knowledge _terrified_ him. Like burning your hand on a stove, too much, too fast, he wanted to pull back.

"I'd like to, as well. But there are a certain number of risks and dangers that come associated with… this- "

he gestured in a vague motion with a hand.

"- and it's… I…"

"Edward. Not twelve hours ago I took you by the hand and leapt out of a second story window, and you let me do it."

Peculiar, how one night could make such a difference. The dread and fear of humiliation he'd felt that night in Arkham had no power now. He _wanted_ this, he'd decided. Of course, he wouldn't force him - _God,_ no. That was utterly unthinkable - but he was at least unwilling to simply give up at a slight hesitation.

"You directed me here, another rogue, to your personal safehouse. You asked me to stay the night. If I may, I believe you've already shown your hand on how you feel about risks. You're acutely aware of _my_ stance on risks."

Edward looked completely torn. He _felt_ completely torn. He had let Jonathan in, and now he was panicking. Why was he panicking? He didn't know if he could _really_ trust him. Could he? Jon knew so much about him now that he'd never told anyone and he'd never spilt a word to the other rogues as far as he knew and the innocent open look on Jon's face was killing him but-

"It's… just…"

_Too much, too much, too much,_

"Edward." He was quiet, sounded vulnerable, even. "Allow me to stay. With you. Please?"

Words mirroring his own the previous night finally broke his heart. Yes, yes, he was an _idiot,_ of _course_ this was what he wanted; that's why he'd saw fit to meet him and forgive him and let him see what he'd guarded so closely; why in god's name was he so scared of crossing this threshold? He nodded quickly in response for fear of stumbling over his words or worse and hoped he could just communicate the meaning with the look in his eyes - wide and pleading.

Jonathan rose up quickly from his seated position and moved his hands to frame Edward's face, but stopped just short of touching him. He released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"I'd like to-"

"Yes, please. Do."

In a heartbeat Jonathan closed the gap between them, cupping Edward's face gently in his hands. It was a soft kiss, but there was an undeniable need in spades from them both. Jonathan slid his hands back into Edward's hair, gripping tightly, pressing forward and once or twice clumsily nipping with his teeth in his inexperience. Edward didn't care. Neither of them were sure how long they stayed like that; taking and taking and breaking away for the shortest seconds to breathe and taking more like it would never be enough.

Eventually, they separated - both breathing in raspy, out of sync gasps - and Jonathan released his grip in Edward's hair; loosely linking his arms around his shoulders. Edward clung to his chest, buried his face against the side of Jonathan's neck. After a little while, Edward spoke up again; unable to suppress the nervous babbling; quietly muffled by Jon's shoulder.

"Y'know what, Jon?"

Jonathan hummed quietly in response, apparently too content to heckle him. He traced lazy circles at the base of Edward's neck and quietly marvelled at his own need to do so.

"I think I _would_ like to do that again."

They shared a quiet laugh in the dim of the living room. It was certainly an absurd situation, but they were absurd men, now, weren't they?

 


End file.
